Daughter of Fate, Child of Destiny
by daniorchadork
Summary: An emotionally challenged foster child recieves a strange book of mythology from a teacher and she finds that events in her life begin changing, as soon as she begins to understand Norse Mytholgy


Chapter 1

Misery

"The night is always darkest before the dawn"

-American Proverb

F. _Another _F. F for flunk. F for fail. On that one psych test that I had studied for days on, there was only a big, fat, red F, and of course, a handwritten note below it, scrawled from Mrs. Shay; '_see me after class._' It definitely wouldn't be the first time that I'd been called in after class for a teacher to lecture me on my steadily dropping grades. In fact, to be frank, I was getting kind of sick of it. For the past three months, my grades had been dropping at a rate that even I could barely believe; and I've been through a lot in my almost-sixteen-year-old-short-and-miserable-life. From a succession of mostly B's, in early February, then to C's throughout march, and then finally, to D's and F's all during April, my grades and low scores were becoming nearly unmanageable. Not fun.

Almost immediately after I received that test back, the bell rang, a loud, annoying clang that shook the class of psych students out of their seats and me out of my stupor of shock. I slipped the piece of paper off the desk and shuffled to the front of the room, my head down and my shoulders hunched, ashamed. As I reached her desk, I could see that I wasn't the only student who had done poorly on that test. However, I seemed to be the only student that she cared enough about to pay attention to.

"You said to see you after class," I murmured quietly, trying not to be heard.

My teacher nodded and carefully slipped the scantron out of my fingers, pointing to the near-constant line of little red marks, running up and down the page. "Can you explain this?"

I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. I shrugged. "I'm not the only one who did badly," I protested and then pointed to the other red-marked scantrons face-down on her desk, the names invisible. "See?"

She grimaced and then picked up those scantrons that I had pointed to, handing them to me. "These are yours."

She was right. Each one of those test papers had a different date, a different test. And I had failed every single one of them. I tried to speak but I had nothing to say. As I stared at those scores, I found my eyes wet with angry tears. They poured down my face, trailing grime and makeup residue along with them.

"What can I do?" I asked quietly, trying not to cry. "I don't want to fail." I choked back another wave of tears, "please help me!"

She slipped the tests out of my hands and led me over to my desk again. "If there's anything I've learned about learning in the past ten years I've been a teacher," she paused, gazing off into space before continuing, "It's that you really have to want something in order to get it. The school has you in special education, and even a free tutoring program. If you can't use those to your advantage," she looked off again toward the window, "then I really don't know what to tell you." She looked back at me like it was _my_ fault I was failing.

"Look," I said, starting to get angry, "I know I'm not the best student, but that doesn't mean I don't try. I studied for that test, for all those tests," I sighed, "I just don't know how to get my scores up. "But I do know that I _want_ a future, Mrs. Shay. I _want _to go to college and I _want_ to do well." I stopped, trying to calm my anxious breathing. "Sometimes, things just don't go according to plan. I want these things and I'm fighting to get them. But I can't control what happens to me."

Mrs. Shay looked at me sadly. "I hope so, Nicole, I really hope so."

I turned back to my backpack, thinking she was done, but I was wrong. "There's something I want you to have." I turned back to her, puzzled as she walked back to her desk and grabbed a _huge_ almanac on world mythology, handing it back to me. "I really want you to do well. And I hope this can help you fight." She waved me off toward the door and walked to her computer and sat down, her head in her hands.

As I walked out of her classroom, the book of myths under my arm, couldn't help but wonder, _why_ she was so interested in me. I swear, I hoped I wasn't the _only _student doing poorly in her class, I mean half the student body of Orange County Prep smoked and didn't care crap about school anyway, but zeroing in on _me_ in particular, seemed almost irrational. I mean, I was grateful and all, but it still seemed a little out of the ordinary.

However, I forgot everything that might have been _out of the ordinary,_ as soon as I started flipping through that book. As I sat on the front steps of the music wing, I swear, the world just melted into oblivion around me; the people, the sounds, the buildings, even the smells of the early-April morning, seemed to disappear and I found myself hypnotized in the beauty of that book.

Half an hour later, I found myself lost in a daze as I walked into my second period English class. Break had been a blur; I had been so absorbed in my psych teacher's book that all through my half-an-hour tutorial period, I felt like I had been to another world. I had never realized it, but I really liked these myths. And unlike anything that I had ever tried to understand, these stories kept me hooked. Even if I had tried, I couldn't have brought myself away from the sheer beauty of those myths. Okay, I know it sounds a bit cheesy, but _really_, this was how I felt. These myths were so beautiful, that I thought I had died and gone to heaven while reading them, well, that is until my English teacher interrupted my daydream.

"Miss Nicole, are you _even_ listening to me?" The nails-on-chalkboard voice of my teacher shattered my reverie like a champagne bottle being opened on New Year 's Eve.

I shook my head vigorously, trying to get myself back to the class. "Ummm yeah." _Really intelligent answer, Nicole._

"Hmph," Mrs. Packer grunted, unsatisfied, before continuing with her lecture. I sighed softly under my breath, giggling softly, giddily_. _When I was positive that she wasn't looking at me, I pulled out the textbook and I began flipping through the middle section of the book, the section on the Norse gods. It was now, looking at paintings of the Scandinavian Norse gods, that a warm, buttery feeling spread throughout my limbs, as if I had just been dunked into a Jacuzzi. I was a foster child, and therefore I had never actually met my parents, but looking through that section gave me a feeling of security, a feeling of peace, almost like my mother, or my father, was smiling down at me as I read.

The remainder of the two hour class was hazy. I couldn't even bring myself to put the book down, let alone pay attention to the class. I had always been pretty stubborn that way; I'd never been able to convince myself to focus on anything that really mattered (aka school). I'd never really understood anything related to school either. All the concepts we studied just seemed rather abstract, and kind of weird. I had been told that the reason I was in special education was because I had some kind of learning disability that made learning certain concepts difficult for me, which would make sense. Because of that, I'd been pegged as a 'dumb kid' since fifth grade. And I hated it. But by the time English ended and lunch arrived, I realized something: those Norse myths were stories that I could actually understand. The concepts, the ideology, even most of the stories, actually made a lot more sense than anything I had been taught in school. I had only been reading for a couple hours, but I felt that if you lectured me on any one of those stories, I would completely understand it (If the school could test me on this, rather than on the regular subjects, I might actually be doing well).

My lunch was a silent event under the roof of the art wing. This was my usual dining spot. I hate to admit it, but I usually ate lunch alone; I was a loner. Period. However, today, that usual feeling of loneliness and insecurity was gone, replaced by that same buttery-warm feeling. Accompanied by that lack of negativity, was the taste of my food. Instead of cringing at the taste of leftover salads and cheap bran muffins, I was so enamored with the textbook, that the food I was eating could have been crème brule or lobster, and I wouldn't have been able to tell the difference. All through my forty-five minute lunch break, I barely looked up from the book. I felt like gravity was pulling my eyes down to stare down at that book; that I couldn't pull away even if I wanted to. Yet at the same time, just holding that book gave me such a feeling of security that I almost forgot I was a friendless foster kid with barely any hope or spirit left. Almost.

Four hours later, after one of the most painful Algebra classes I had ever taken, and an extremely boring science lecture, I was heading home. By walking home, back to my foster parent's house in Santa Monica suburbia, I guess you could say I wasn't really going 'home'; for the past 15 years of my life, I had constantly been changing homes, trying to find a family that would accept me. But so far, _nada_. I'd been in this house for a year and a half and they were ready to kick me out. Again.

By the time I reached the house, it was almost five, and my mom was just getting home from work. I'll admit it; I really didn't like either of my foster parents and I tried to avoid them as much as possible by getting home early each day and then leaving early each morning, but at meals, I would be forced to talk to them and respond to their never-ending interrogation. They would call this time 'family bonding time', but I preferred to call it 'family _bondage_ times'. I swear they made me feel like a Russian spy being interrogated by the CIA because of a nuclear threat.

However, despite my mom's presence, I somehow made it into the brick house, unscathed. Without stopping, I rushed up to my room and I snapped the door shut just as her keys rattled around in her pocket as she entered the house. Breathing a sigh of relief, I threw myself down on my bed. _That was close_. Trying to calm myself, I pulled out my psychology teacher's mythology textbook and flipped through it once again. The section on Norse mythology was already dog-eared with use, meanwhile, the remainder of the book, those sections on Greek, Roman, Native American and African mythology, were barely touched. I laughed to myself, marveling at how cliché it was.

For the next hour an a half until my father arrived, I read the textbook. I had never put so much attention or so much energy into _anything_ before in my life. You couldsay that I was obsessed. You know when a TV series starts its first season and you're just so excited that you can't think of anything else but that one thing? That's how I felt, just a thousand times more jazzed. Those few myths in the textbook drew me in like a fish on a hook. I felt like a crack addict; that if you took that book away from me, I would pine for it until I starved to death. Talk about intense.

I was lost in those myths until my father knocked on the door, peeking his head into the room. "Come on Nicole, dinner." I was so lost that I hadn't even heard him drive up. His old Chevy was so loud that usually I could hear it coming from miles away but today I hadn't even known. "Yeah. Hold on. I'll be there."

"Nicole! Now," he barked. Remember what I said about family 'bondage' time? Yeah…keep that in mind. My parents might seem nice at first, but after the first couple minutes, the sugary coating wears off and they start acting like slave-drivers, not parents.

I grabbed a bookmark off my bed stand and ran out of my room, downstairs, to the kitchen. My mom was standing there, over the stove, cooking what smelled like the world's largest dead fish. And unfortunately it was. I coughed a little as I sat down at the table, trying not to focus on the smell. But it only got worse as my mom served me a fillet. I coughed again and my mom glared at me. She sat at the other end of the table and my dad sat between us, neutral territory. Silently, I began eating, only wishing I could have the mythology book now to turn off my taste buds again like they did at lunch, but no matter how much I tried, the mushy, fishy taste still lingered in my mouth, making me want to vomit. And equal in unpleasantness were my parent's nonstop questions. However today, the questions were centered around one thing and one thing only; my grades. Towards the end of the meal, and two forced helpings of that repulsive trout, my dad pulled out two slips of paper and turned to me, his face serious and dangerous. "We need to talk."

I was tempted to say something along the lines of; '_well we're talking, so are you done yet?' _but I figured that that might be a dangerous answer. I turned toward him. "Yes?"

"Your grades are getting a bit," he paused, looking at his stony-faced wife for encouragement, "out of hand."

"Yes…sir." I said with difficulty. As painful as it was to say it, I was hoping to stay on his good side. The last thing I needed was one of my father's angry outbreaks.

"Don't you 'yes sir' me," he snarled. _Short temper much?_ Then holding out a copy of the grade interface, he pointed to each one of my grades, his face growing redder and his voice getting louder with each word. "Nicole Alex! Are you _trying_ to fail out of school?"

For a moment I was silent, staring at the succession of low scores directly in front of my nose. Then, with as much courage as I could muster, I snatched the piece of paper out of his thick, sausage-looking fingers and ripped it up. I threw the paper fragments down on the ground. "As a matter of fact I'm not trying to fail school. If I was you would know." I found my face wet with tears again. I was crying for the second time in a single day.

"Well as of now," he stood over me again, now brandishing the second piece of paper, "I'm not so sure." This time he held the paper out to me, but it felt like he was holding a knife out to me, point first. "I took the paper shakily from his grip. "Let me know if you've changed your attitude after reading it," he murmured quietly. "Because there has to be a hell of a lot more change if you're hoping to stay here."

I looked up at him puzzled, but he wouldn't look at me. He sat back in his chair and cut himself another fillet of fish. Turning away from him, I looked back down and read one of the most depressing letter I had ever received:

_Dear Mr. Nelson, (that was my foster dad's name)_

_ Over the past several months, your daughter, Nicole Aeseri, has been performing quite poorly in her classes. We regret to inform you, that due to her low grade point average, she has been placed on Academic probation. If her low scores persist, we may have to place her on academic suspension and/or expulsion. In light of this even, if her scores do not improve, Nicole will _not_ be invited back to Orange County Preparatory Academy in future years. If there is anything that the school faculty can do to help your daughter please inform us immediately._

_ Sincerely,_

_ Amelia Gonovez._

_ Vice principal_

I stifled a sob as I read the letter. I couldn't believe it. This was a private school, a private preparatory academy that was supposed to help me with my issues, with my learning disability. And even with the help they were providing, I was still failing. Once my social worker heard about this (he probably already had), he would run me through the mill. After I read it, I looked up at my dad who glanced at me out of the corner of his eye, now on his fourth piece of fish. "What did I tell ya?"

"Nothing that would prepare me for this?" I muttered quietly.

My father grimaced. "You might want to pull the act together, missy." He paused, "You have a month to bring your all your grades up. And if you fail sophomore year, well, there's nothing I can do about that."

He walked away, carrying the plate of fish back into the kitchen. His words were an echo in my mind. And I was afraid. If I _did_ fail sophomore year, who knew what would happen next. I knew I would be 'transferred', but…then what? I brought my plate to the sink, and then walked blindly back to my room. The first _logical_ thing would be to open a couple textbooks and study, but then again, when had I ever been a logical person? I did pull out a few of my assignments, but as hard as I tried, I couldn't focus. Until nearly midnight, I tried as hard as ever to finish, but my father's words stuck in my mind. I knew that the possibility of being sent away was more than real; it _would_ happen, unless I could raise my gpa from a 1.32 to a 3.00 at least. Just thinking about being sent away again sent tears steaming down my cheeks. As the evening drew later, I knew I wouldn't get anything done; I laid my head down on my desk and cried again. I couldn't focus. I might as well have been dreaming.

Chapter 2

Shock

"Truth makes many appeals, not the least of which is its power to shock."

-Jules Renard

The following morning, I woke to the high-pitched static buzzing of my annoyingly persistent alarm clock. I groaned and glanced at the time; 6:15 am. I groaned again, stretching myself out of bed. I was _so_ tempted to just stay in bed until seven, because I didn't have to be at school until after eight. But my parents usually woke up at about seven and I tried to be out of the house as early as possible, just to avoid them. Remember my father's spiel last night? Imagine mini episodes of that five times a day. That's what I would get if I didn't take as much care as I did to avoid them. I mean, they weren't _mean _people; if they just didn't _yell_ at me so much, then yeah, I would be _fine _talking to them. But whenever I tried to make peace with them, they would only start criticizing me on any one of the following: my grades, how bleak my future was because I never put any effort into anything, how much I needed to lose weight (no, I'm not _fat_; I'm _curvy!_) how I didn't have any friends, etcetera. _Now_ can you see why I tried to avoid them as much as possible?

Waking up before them, however, sometimes posed more of a risk than a benefit. If I tripped going down the stairs (that happened way too much) or one of the floorboards squeaked underfoot, my foster parents would be all over me like a pack of hyenas. But today, I got lucky, and I passed before their bedroom clean and (relatively) silent. Within the next twenty minutes, I managed to make myself a piece of toast, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a couple fake answers for my history homework and somehow, I made it out the door unscathed. After twisting the key back to locked, I turned around and caught my breath. I may live in the Santa Monica suburbs, but the sunrises here everyday never failed to amaze me. Red, pink, yellow, blue, and violet stripes layered the horizon amid perfect, fluffy cotton-ball clouds. I closed my eyes, letting the cool spring morning air wash over me. Sometimes, it could be those little things, like this, that could make everything seem worthwhile. Everyone I knew only focused on the really big stuff, school, work, and money, but no one ever seemed to look at, or even pay attention to those small thing in life. Sometimes just a little music, a good book, a flower, or a sunrise could complete all that. I might not have ever had a real family or a real home or even a real childhood, but that sunrise made me forget all about that, and for the first time in a long time, I just stood there and took a breath.

About six years ago, I had been relocated to a foster home in Maine, right on the water. That had definitely been my favorite home and this sunrise reminded me of the dawn over the beach each morning back east. Those days had been good days for me. I was still young, still innocent. I never really understood what was happening to me each time I moved. But I'd been a difficult kid and no matter where I had been located, a few years (or months) later I would be forced to leave again.

That thought brought me back to the present. I sighed, remembering those old days before I set off again. You know when your thinking back on a memory when you were younger and you knew you were happy, but you look at it now in the worst possible light? That's how I felt now. Looking back at the ten-year-old Nicole made me smile a little, but it also made me sad. Even as young as I was, I was still a ward of the state. I was so small, so innocent and my life really meant something for me then, but my life really didn't mean much to the government who took care of me. My life was just a beige-colored folder under the arm of some nameless county official, somewhere. Looking back at the sunset, I realized that my eyes were stinging. I was crying for the third time in two days. I used to think that my experiences as a kid had hardened me, but anyone could see that that was a lie.

I was passing by the teacher's lot when she caught me

"Nicole!"

I turned around, looking for the source of the voice and after a minute or two, I saw my psychology teacher struggling under the weight of what looked like a dozen file-folders, full to bursting with students work.

I rushed over to her. "Hey Mrs. S. Need a hand?" She smiled in gratitude but shook her head. She beckoned to me, heading over toward her classroom. As reluctant as I was, I followed. Five minutes later, she unlocked the door to the English wing (don't ask me why her class was in the English wing) and collapsed, boxes and file-folders flying in all directions.

"Why hello miss Nicole," my teacher said happily, stretching her back. "To what do I owe this fine pleasure?"

I smiled a little. "I think I should be the one asking that. You called me over!"

She smiled and then pushed open the door of her classroom, kicking the boxes in one by one with her booted foot. I realized something right then, I didn't have any friends really, but I really liked Mrs. Shay when she wasn't teaching me. She was a really nice woman at heart.

Once inside, she sat me down in front of her. "So I asked you here to talk about the book I lent you."

I reached inside my bag and pulled out the textbook. "What about it?"

"I just wanted to know what you thought of it." She smiled softly and started organizing her desk. Then she grinned, "It's not everyday that I give one of my students one of my old college textbooks!

I slammed the book on her desk, hard. "Wait this was your book?" I was shocked. "I thought you only studied psychology. That's what you told us…" I trailed off aimlessly. She had told us that her one and only passion in school had been the human mind, why then had she…? I was puzzled

As you grow, there are a lot of things that you'll learn from mythology that will help you understand the world around you." She sounded almost like she was quoting a movie or something. But at the same time I could swear that I had never heard those words spoken aloud. Yet it sounded so familiar…

She cleared her throat. "There are a lot of things in this particular book that will help you understand certain aspects of your own life," she narrowed her eyebrows, "certain things that you can might have had _difficulty _understanding in your own."

I looked up at her questioningly, "are you talking about my family?" I hadn't realized it, but my hands were wet with perspiration. "As far as I know, I don't have a family. Not really anyway," I muttered bitterly. "Besides, what does this have to do with the fact that this is your book?"

"I never planned on studying psychology, Nicole," she murmured, "The one and only thing I could understand when I was your age, was mythology. Much like you," she added, barely above a whisper.

"Much like me? What-what is that supposed to mean?" She was acting like she knew me. Ok yeah, I _know_ teachers are supposed to 'get to know' their students but I'm talking about _knowing,_ knowing; Like she had already been in my position: that she had fallen in love with the Germanic and Norse myths, that she had been a friendless, hopeless foster kid, failing her sophomore year in high school. With a shiver, I realized that I knew nothing about her past. What if she _been_ in my position before?

I looked back up at my teacher and found her smiling sadly at me. She handed me the book and smoothed her hand over the cover tenderly. "Never stop thinking about who you really might be," she said after a moment. "You never know when the answers you might be looking for are right under your fingertips."

I looked at her for a minute, puzzled. "Umm ookay." Her last couple words had seemed way too philosophical for a psychology teacher…it was starting to make me wonder. I shoved the book back in my bag and headed for the door. "Oh and one more thing Nicole!"

I turned around, slightly impatient now. "Yes?"

She saw my look and then faltered, "never mind."

I kicked the door open with my flip flops, stubbing my toe painfully, and then proceeded to my first period class today. You see, at my school, we have this weird thing called block scheduling. Basically, it's where we have three or four classes a day (out of six, seven or eight total) and then other three or four the next day. It rotated each day, so I never had the same class in the same day, always every other day. It was really nice to have that extra time between classes, but it sure was painful to sit through two hours of the same subject for three or four classes daily.

Today, my first class was art; thankfully, it wasn't something difficult like U.S. history or 'basic algebraic concepts', like I had later on today. Unlike yesterday, today, I only had three classes. HALELULIA! You're probably wondering what the heck the 'basic algebraic concepts' is. I don't blame you. See, for some reason, my school has the emphasis on mathematics and stuff, so, since I was close to failing algebra 1 (again) the special education department decided to put me in _two_ math classes, as if one wasn't difficult enough to handle. Supposedly, it was to help me understand algebra _more_ but clearly it wasn't working; I was almost-failing the remedial algebra and I knew I had about the same grade in the additional class. But I tried not to focus on my grades right now, because now, I was in _my_ class; the only class that I was excelling in. (and by excelling, I mean a B. I probably forgot to mention that; apart from the majority of D's and F's, I had one good, passing, class-this one.)

I hurried into class just as the warning bell rang. After I talked to Shay, for some reason, I had an inspiration to 'flip' through the book again. You should laugh; 'flip' is an understatement. After getting out of her classroom, I was so engaged in the book that I hadn't even heard the first bell ring, forty-five minutes later.

Luckily, my art teacher didn't catch me coming in late. Mr. Hez, is a middle aged man, slightly neurotic, a little delusional and he likes blabbering about octopi, but since I was passing his class I decided not to complain. Besides, he never gave us homework, tests, finals or any 'real' work. Basically if we paid attention in his class, we would pass. Now that might not seem difficult…but you're probably getting to know me and you might have figured out that even I couldn't pay attention and stay silent for two hours solely on art. But then again, I wasn't failing, so I might as well grin and bare it…

"Claaas!" Mr. Hez screamed out to the class in a clearly fake, Indian accent. I rolled my eyes and set my head between my interlaced fingers on the desk. "Todaaaay," he coughed, "weee wiiil doooo in_ter_pretive art!" the class shook their heads, whispering amongst themselves, some looking interested, others slightly worried and others, just giggling behind their hands. Mr. Hez pulled out an easel and flipped to a brand new sheet of paper. "Youu wiiil choooose a topiiic, and draaaaw!" he paused, probably for dramatic effect, and now speaking with an American accent, he continued. "You may draw anything, anyone, a story, a myth and draw, or paint it. I want to compare what we have by the end of the class!" He finished with a flourish, "Get to wooork!"

I grinned, looking up at the easel, lost in thought. Then, I pulled out the mythology book, staring at the embroidered, pastel-colored cover. I set it on the edge of my table and pulled out a piece of paint paper and began sketching the 'world tree', the universe of Norse mythology, aka, Yggdrasill. In the myth, this was a _huge_ tree that stood as the world; the gods lived on the top branches, and below them, the land of the humans, dwarves and other mythical creatures, dwelled and ruled. Of course no one actually lived in _branches_ of the tree, but the tree stood as the world, so depending on your level of the tree, you were important, or not so important.

I had never been one of those fantastic, show-offish sort of artist; If I ever started a sketch, no one would ever come over to me and start rambling off about how I would be the next Van Gogh. However today, all that changed; this was the best painting I had ever done. After I sketched the tree, I transferred it to a canvas and colored it in with acrylic paints and pastel oil crayons. Oh. My. God. This was _definitely_ the best painting I had ever made. Unfortunately, Mr. Hez just _had_ to see it.

"Nicole!" Mr. Hez announced loudly, holding up the canvas, and smearing the pastel a little, "Do you have _any_ idea how good this is?"

I shrugged a little, sliding down in my seat to look smaller, "Umm I don't know."

"Because," Mr. Hez coughed a little and reverted back into the fake Indian accent, "thiiis iiis faantaastiical!"

"Ok, thanks," I murmured. Mr. Hez was still holding up the painting, "could I have it back now?"

My teacher was silent for a minute before handing the painting back to me and continuing his sweep of the classroom.

I placed the canvas back on the table and stared at it for a long time. It really was beautiful. The branches swayed a little in a passing breeze and grasses, smaller trees and stars dotted the countryside around the great Ash. I pulled out the mythology book and flipped through it until I found a picture of Yggdrasill, one that I had never seen before. As I stared from my canvas painting, to the pastel drawing in the book, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up and I felt a shiver run down the length of my spine; they were exactly the same.

Usually, Mr. Hez would allow us to take home our work to finish it, then we would bring it back the next class period. But not this time; as soon as I scooted my chair back in and slung my bag over my shoulder, my art teacher galloped over to me and slipped the painting from my hands. I stared at him. _What the…_

"I would like to keep your, erm, painting." Mr. Hez said quietly. "It's not every day that I have a student paint up such a masterpiece like this!" He stared at the portrait in his hands and smiled, "Would you mind if I keep it, just for now, as I'm sure your finished with it…?"

I was tired, and kind of stressed, so I wasn't about to argue with him. "Sure, whatever works."

"Fabulous," Mr. Hez squealed. "Thank you!" He squeaked again and skipped back to his desk, whistling happy. Weird, but I let it go. I shifted my bag over my back and headed outside. Second period, today, I had that stupid, stupid, _second_ math class. I hadn't done last night's homework, so tonight, I would have double the algebra. _Great. _

I meandered around the courtyard before climbing up to the third floor of the main building to math. I was still pretty early, so I started looking through the book once again. (I swear, I looked at it _every_ spare moment I had). After staring at a couple paintings and drawings in the book, I whipped out a piece of binder paper and set to recreating it. I had never been good with art imitation, but today was different; now, I found myself shocked, yet again by the sudden artistic skill that I had acquired, seemingly overnight. Twenty-four hours ago, I was just an art _student_; today, I was an _artist_. Staring at that sudden burst of creativity, even I couldn't believe I had done it. It was just a sketch, but somehow, the picture seemed _alive._ No, I'm not talking about gothic realism painting techniques. Ha ha, no way. Instead, I imagined the sketch almost like a paused black-and-white film, very realistic, and ready to continue at any time. A minute or so later, the bell rang, but I could have _sworn_, even as I glanced at it as I slipped it into my binder, that color showed through, that the waters of that painting flowed for a split-second, and just for a moment, I thought I saw the portrait _move_.

Chapter 3

Discovery

"The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes"

-Marcel Proust

New stuff, new _good_ stuff in particular, has always had a huge effect on me. Why, probably because most of the 'new stuff' I've received has either been a new foster home, a 'new' piece of donated clothing or a gift from a charity. But this, this newfound talent, this was better than anything I'd ever had. I sat through Algebra in such a daze, I could barely wipe the grin off my face. I hadn't been so happy since, well, ever. As I dragged my feet to the art wing after class, I was still so elated, that I almost forgot about the looming projects ahead and the mountain of F's I had to bring up to A's, almost.

The rest of the day passed, thankfully, pretty uneventful. After history, I slipped across the street and bought myself a latte at the little pastry shop. And all the way home, I was high, sipping on sweet coffee and my own personal accomplishment. I had never had such a good day; I had never been so happy.

As I reached the house, I reached for my key and pulled open the beige door, shutting it with a snap and heading upstairs to enjoy my newfound talent. For the next hour and a half, I drew. I must have flipped through that book nearly a dozen times and each time I found a good myth or a descriptive scene, I would rip a piece of paper out of my sketchbook and I would start to draw. By the time my mom pulled up to the house, I had nearly six finished sketches, all shaded and outlined to perfection. After finishing my last one, I spread all my portraits from the day out on my bed, and stared at each one of them in amazement. All my life, I had searched for some kind of passion, some hidden talent. For almost sixteen years I had searched for that one gift, and for almost sixteen years I had never found it. But now, I had found it. This gift had been with me my whole life, but I hadn't seen it. But now, everything seemed to fall into place. I may not have had a real home anywhere I had previously lived, but today, right here with my sketches and my mythology book, I felt more at home than I ever had; and that was more than I had ever asked for.

However, despite my bright day, _nothing_ could damper my father's angry tirade of speech and criticism, and just like last night, I suffered through another painfully long family dinner. This night, the meal consisted of tuna casserole. Now I know it sounds gross, but tonight, the meal was actually _store bought_; it bore no taint of my mother's cooking. But although the food wasn't too bad, my father's long rant on my poor schoolwork and constant laziness seemed near endless. But when dinner ended and I returned back to my bedroom, I immediately found myself back in that happy place, that place that even my father's insults couldn't darken.

Let me tell you, when I went back up to my room, it was _so_ tempting just to sit down and draw again, but my dad's rant had reminded me of my grades and what I needed to do. And somehow, when I sat down to do my homework, I actually found myself able to focus; by the end of the evening, I had finished both sets of math homework, my science worksheet, a psychology questionnaire and a paragraph on Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet. At eleven thirty, I was finished and I had never stayed focused for so long. That warm feeling I got when reading the myths spread through my body once again and when I lay down under my comforter, I drifted off into a deep slumber. This day had fooled me into thinking that things actually could get better, but of course, I was wrong.

The following day, right in the middle of psychology, I was called into the dean's office. I had always tried to be the 'goody two shoes' girl, so I assumed I would never be 'called into the principals office'. But today, I was.

When I got the hall pass, knew I was in trouble. I dragged my feet all the way to the main building and even when I got there, I still waited as long as possible to go inside. But once I was inside and sitting down in front of her, I knew this would not bode well with my father. Amelia Gonovez, vice principal, the same woman who wrote the letter was my interrogator today.

"So Nicole, how are you?"

"I'm ok I guess." I knew that the best way to get out of here was to act all smiles and nods but that was difficult. I knew what I was in here for and I knew what this meant.

"So," Mrs. Gonovez smiled a little, "I hear you've been having some difficulty with your grades."

_A little difficulty_, was an understatement. I wanted to scream at her but somehow I kept my temper. "Yes ma'am."

She looked me over critically and turned to her computer, swiveling it around so I could see it, not that I needed to see it to know what she was talking about. "As you know, this school is an institute designed to help students with learning disabilities and handicaps pass school. You are probably aware that over half of the student body is passing due to the schools special education program. I," she paused, looking back at the computer, "I want you to know that the school reserves spots for students who will utilize the school's special needs programs and take advantage of them."

I almost laughed. She was acting like the majority of the student body were good, perfect students who only spent their free time at the library or at extracurriculars. Did _any_ of the teachers realize that most of the kids were passing because they cheated, or that after school most of them would go behind the school to get high? Even _she _should know that. "Yes I'm aware."

"Then," she swallowed, "you're probably aware of the school's academic standards and the consequences that the school has for," she paused, "certain students."

I knew she was talking about me. I was that 'certain student' who would receive that 'concequence'. But I just nodded, despite the turmoil boiling in the pit of my stomach. "Yes ma'am, I understand."

The dean nodded grimly and placed her hand on the rim of the screen, pointing to each of my poor scores individually. "I don't know what to say, Nicole. All semester you were fine, and now," she swept her hand over the screen before placing it on the armrest of her chair, "I don't know."

"Mrs. Gonovez," I said as sugary as possible, "You don't know how hard I've been working. Just give me a few more weeks. I've been trying my best to improve. Just please give me until the end of the year, please!"

The teacher looked at me sympathetically before she turned the computer back around. "I want to help you, Nicole, I really do. I'll give you until the end of the year but if your scores don't improve," she shook her head sadly, "I don't know what to tell you."

"Ok." I looked at her for a moment and then stood up, pushing the chair in forcefully. "Can I go?"

She nodded and handed me a slip of pink paper. "Give this to your teacher."

I took the paper grudgingly but then turned back to the door, swung it open and marched angrily back to class. Thankfully, by the time I got back to psychology, my anger had subsided, but fear had replaced it. For the remaining forty-five minutes of class, I cried. These last few days, I felt like I had spilt more tears than I had in my lifetime. All through my tween and teen years, I had _never_ cried. But now, I felt like I was being thrust into an entirely new world, and I didn't know how to handle it.

The next six and a half hours passed slowly, too slowly for my liking. As I transferred from English to science and then to another incredibly frustrating math class, the day just seemed to go more and more slowly, and I only got more and more aggravated. And when I got home, guess what: there was _another_ unpleasant surprise waiting for me. And this one was worse than my meeting with Gonovez and my increasingly frustrating math classes, combined; it was a meeting with my social worker. As soon as I walked through the door of the house, I knew that my father had stayed true to his word.

"You're late!" my foster dad's voice rung through the house and hit me square in the face as I attempted to close the door. "Have a little respect won't you? Instead of coming in nearly an hour late, can't you _please _at least_ act_ like you care?"

I honestly had no idea what he was talking about, this was my usual timing on Wednesdays. "Enlighten me, what the heck am I late for? I had tutoring you know." Believe it or not, I actually had an excuse for my timing. I _did_ have tutoring today, an event that postponed my home arrival time by an hour. And my father called _me_ irresponsible. I almost laughed.

My father rolled his eyes. "Excuses," he muttered under his breath.

Across from me was my social worker sitting on our baby-blue rocking chair. Both my mother and my father were squished together in the small teal loveseat. The atmosphere was tenser than an bowstring at full stress. I could tell they had just finished an argument. I gingerly set my bag down next to the coffee table and quietly sat down on the hardback wooden chair prepared for me. _Figures_.

"So, Nicole…" my social worker began, "we, erm, need to talk" He set his clipboard down on his lap and crossed his legs preparing to write. I have to admit it, unlike my present foster parents, my social worker was actually a nice guy. He always smiled when he talked to his clients but at the same time he constantly had the air of being very sophisticated. He always wore a button down beige shirt and nice black slacks with brown loafers and he always had messy reddish brown hair and blue eyes and although he was only in his mid thirty's or so, he had a dozen tiny smile wrinkles; you could tell he laughed a lot when he wasn't on foster kid's cases.

"About?" I looked at Jeremy (the social worker) and then at my father who was glaring at me. He clearly was still angry about how late I was.

"A couple things," he sighed heavily. "Your current foster dad," he glanced at him quickly before returning his gaze back to me. "and your mom have made a few decisions, none of them executive of course but they wanted to run them by you," he paused, "with me here."

I snorted, "Why? So my dad wont pull out a knife and run me through it when we start talking?"

Jeremy stared at me, "Not funny, Nicole."

"Sorry."

"Well then. There are a few things at hand." He made a note on his clipboard before looking back up at me. "First and foremost are your grades."

"Yeah…about that…" I trailed off, my heart sinking.

"You know this is one of the only schools in the area that specializes in special education, right?"

"Yeah…"

"And you know that unless you get your grades up your not going to be able to attend next year, right?

"Yeah, I know."

"So that means that if you can't get your grades up, your going to have to transfer."

I felt a tear drip down my face yet again, "Yes, I know."

"So are you going to do anything about it?"

"What else can I do about it?" I shouted, my anger exploding as I jumped out of my chair. "I do all my homework, I study for pretty much every test and yet and I spend nearly every single stinking minute worrying about my grades. What else can I do!" I sank into my chair, suddenly weary and I placed my head in my hands, crying yet again. "I-I don't wa-want to m-move again!" I stuttered, my entire body shaking as I cried. "N-ninth house, n-ninth s-school, I'm t-trying my b-best I s-swear!" I fell into another sobbing fit and I couldn't stop. Hot tears stormed down my face and soaked the knees of my jeans. And somehow, I couldn't stem the waterfall of salty tears. They poured down my face like a million tiny cascades, streaking my face and reddening my eyes so I could barely see.

The next ten minutes passed almost silently, except for my crying and the scratch of Jeremy's ballpoint pen on his clipboard. Finally when my tears had receded, I found all three sets of eyes fixed on me. Jeremy was the first to talk.

"Well there _is _another option…" he stopped and glanced at both my parents before continuing. "Nicole, if you want, we could transfer you to a relief home for a while, then you could start up at a different school in the fall, and then you could come back here the following year." He glanced at his clipboard. "There's no reason why the school wouldn't let you in for senior year."

I stared at him with disbelief and then shook my head violently. "Are you insane!"

"I just wanted to pose the idea out there…" Jeremy said softly.

"Have you seen how they treat me?" I demanded, pointing to my parents snuggled together in the crevice of the little couch. "The only reason I don't want to move is because I _hate _the transfer process! I would never want to come back here if I was relocated!"

My social worker looked at me sadly. "Alright Nicole, I'll see what I can do."

He stood up and shook my parent's hands, both of them still sitting down (_rude!_), and muttered something indistinct to the both of them before he carefully placed the clipboard inside his computer bag, and exited, saluting me as he walked out to his green Lexus across the street.

As his car disappeared down the line of suburban houses, I turned away from the window and began walking up to my room, bag in hand. My parents were whispering intensely, still scrunched in the crevice of the couch, but I tried to ignore them and ran up the stairs to my room.

As soon as I clicked my door closed, my fears dissolved. I ran to my bed and flopped down on it, staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars I had plastered up there last year. I closed my eyes, trying to forget about Jeremy, and my parents, and my grades, and school and my future…I tried to forget about everything. I could have just lain there forever but a nagging in the back of my head told me otherwise; I knew I had homework and there were just too many threats posed out there lest my poor grades persist. But now, I was starting to rethink that; why would I want to stay here anyway? My parents were horrible, I had no friends at school, and I had never liked Orange County anyway. So why was I so keen on staying here? I rolled over to my side and racked my brains for an good answer, however, I could find none. I guess it was just the whole moving business. I hated transferring and besides, no one knew what the future held; what if my future home was even worse than this one? I chuckled humorlessly, shaking my head at the irony; I didn't want to leave because I didn't want anything to change, but I wanted to leave so I could start over and get out of here, and ultimately change everything.

I pulled the book out of my shoulder bag and leaned down until I was propped up against a couple pillows. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, hugging the book to my chest as I sank deeper and deeper into the comforter. I sighed, another small tear leaking out of my closed eye lid and tracing a faint transparent trail down the side of my face. I turned to the side, letting the tear soak into the pillow and pressed the book into my heart with even more force. As my body encircled the book, I felt that same warm feeling surge through my veins like a rush of adrenaline. But this time with more force and with that warm comfort there seemed to be…some kind of message; the feeling was warm, but somehow, almost hot, like a warning.

For the first time in, like, _forever,_ dinner was a silent (and somewhat tasty) event. I don't know how, or why, but it was almost pleasant sitting at the antique wooden table with a plate of pasta marinara. At least they weren't screaming at me. You'd think that I'd say something about their constant screaming. You know, I would and I have, but after living for a little over eighteen months with their continuously annoying ranting, well, I can't say I've gotten used to it, but close enough.

After the meal, I ventured gingerly upstairs to enjoy my own solitary time until morning, and thankfully, no one stopped me. Upon reaching my room, I tempted myself into drawing, and for the next two and a half hours I drew nonstop, from the gods to the creation story, to giants and cute little elves, I drew only until I paused to catch my breath at almost eleven. Glancing at the time, I gasped and hurriedly shoved my papers in my binder and pulled out a few textbooks and using the remainder of my energy, I studied, which was only for another hour; I fell asleep during algebra.

Chapter 4

Helpless

"What do you ask for when there's no help to give?"

-Anonymous

The following day began as usual; I woke up early, I ate breakfast and made my lunch, I packed my bags and walked tiredly to school. My classes passed as usual, boring and slightly pointless, except for art which actually happened to be fun, and finally, tutoring; a few hours just to myself to draw, read and do homework. Today however, I had a strange nagging sensation in the back of my head, like something was missing; like I'd forgotten my homework at home or I'd forgotten to eat (wouldn't be the first time) or that I wasn't wearing pants (wouldn't be the first time for that either, but that's another story). All day it had been bothering me but once the Los Angeles sun began to sink into the sea, it tightened its grip. The words 'your time', 'your destiny', 'your chance' kept worming their way into my head from my literature book. I'd read those quotes earlier that day, but somehow they kept coming back to me. I must have looked pretty stupid, sitting in the special education classroom with a couple other special needs kids, shaking my head profusely, trying to rid my head of the thoughts. When it came time to go home, I picked up my shoulder bag and slung it over my shoulder, sweeping my mythology book of the desk and into my arms on my way out. But as I touched the mythology book, something very strange happened. I touched the book and I felt a strange kind of an electric shock. It didn't hurt, but it shocked me, like it literally shocked me (my hair stood up a little) and the next thing I knew, the palm of my hand where I had touched the book, was smoking a little and I thought I saw the outline of something on my hand. But it faded just as quickly as it appeared. I touched the book again a little gingerly but this time, nothing happened. From there, I grabbed the book and I hurried out of campus.

When I got home, I nearly ran up to my room and as soon as the door snapped shut, I slammed the book on my desk and examined it closely. It was starting to freak me out. First that drawing of the tree thing, which was like, _identical _to the one in the book, then the book physically _shocking me_… it was starting to scare me and I was starting to question it. Wait…a book couldn't shock you right? Like if you touch someone in the middle of winter you can give them a static shock, but can you touch a book, like a regular hardback book and get a shock? Then again, it hadn't really shocked me; it had actually burned me, somehow. Puzzled, I laid my head down on the desk (significantly far enough away from the book so that it wouldn't attack me unless of course it grew legs) and closed my eyes, breathing in softly. A moment later, I opened them and glanced at the calendar hanging from the wall next to my desk. For a moment, I just stared at it, but then, I gasped in shock; tomorrow would be April seventeenth! Tomorrow would be my sixteenth birthday. I'd been so preoccupied with thinking about moving and homework and drawing that I hadn't even realized that today was the eve of my birthday. At once, I leapt up and padded quickly downstairs in my socked feet. "Tomorrow's my birthday!"

My mom was in the kitchen, her head bent down to stir some kind of pot roast and my father was in the rocking chair, reading the paper. "What was that," he murmured quietly.

"Dad, tomorrow's my sixteenth birthday! Tomorrow, I can drive!" I hadn't even realized that I had my permit and tomorrow I would be able to drive with my parents permission. Although I'd had my permit for a while now, they specifically said, that I couldn't get in a car until I was sixteen, and tomorrow I would be. However, my dad didn't like that.

"No you can't," he said, his voice a little louder and a little sharper. He was starting to get touchy. "Wait…" he paused, "Tomorrow isn't your birthday!"

_What the…?_ He didn't even remember. "Umm hello, yeah it is. Today's the sixteenth. Tomorrow's the seventeenth. April seventeenth is my birthday. I think I'd know."

My dad stared at his paper for a moment, his eye's still, before he looked back up at me. "Right…," he paused and he narrowed his eyes a little as his flabby cheeks turned crimson. "Yeah…it is your birthday isn't it."

"Nice job dad," I muttered under my breath. "Umm yeah, it is," I said a little louder, "just thought you might want to know…hint, hint." I added.

"Ok sure whatever." My dad turned back to his paper, the red receding. "Birthday," he paused. Then with difficulty, "what do you want?"

"Someone to acknowledge that I'm actually human," I muttered under my breath. "Umm, I'd like to drive."

Apparently, completely unaware of what I had said earlier, my dad looked at me in shock. "Drive?" he said incredulously, gasping for breath through laughter, "With your grades?" He laughed again as I sat down on the first step of the stairs mortified. "With your grades I'd hate to see your insurrence bill!" He paused, "especially with your coordination!"

"You idiot!" I gasped softly, turning toward my room. "How could you!"

As I slammed the door to my bedroom, I lumbered over to my bed and curled myself up on the blue comforter and cried. Somehow, the mythology book, although I swore I left it on the desk, was on the night stand and I hugged it to my chest, feeling its mysterious comforting warmth spread through my body. My eyes stung with the threat of new tears and my throat was tight as I tried to hold back my crying, but the book kept spreading its warmth through me and somehow calmed me enough to stop crying. I pressed the book even harder against my throbbing heart and kissed the cover softly. I breathed in deeply, still trying to calm myself and I stood up. Gazing out of the window I spread the blinds to the sides so I could see all the dozens of perfect little houses aligned oh so flawlessly. Did each of them have a tormented foster kid like me? Did each one of those houses have a pair of hopeless would-be parents who even forgot their foster kid's birthday? Turning away from the window, I sat back on the bed again and dropped the book into my lap, stroking the smooth leathery cover affectionately. In only a week, less than a week actually, my life had been transformed. It wasn't any better or worse, but upon receiving the book, I had realized the passion for mythology, _my_ passion for mythology, that I had never known before. And since then, somehow, I felt some connection to the family I had lost. And for now, that was enough to keep me going despite everything. However, I had no idea that this book would ever end up saving my life.

A little while later, my dad's heavy, threatening footsteps rumbled up the stairs and stopped in front of my door. I groaned. "Yeah?"

"Dinner," he said gruffly. He hated stating the obvious, hence I did it just to make him mad. I rolled off my bed and plodded to the door, turning toward the kitchen and smirking a little as he followed closely behind me.

As soon as the three of us sat down, (thankfully to another night of store-bought delight, aka, soup) my mother began talking. In her mind, apologizing profusely for her husband's awful, insults. In other words, basically, she just shook her head a little as she mentioned the scenario, looked at me for a second and mouthed 'sorry.' But that was as much as I'd ever gotten from her, as much as I hate to say it. But yet, after that afternoon, dinner was a surprisingly silent event. Best (pre)birthday dinner I'd ever gotten!

That night, finally after finishing the majority of my homework, I lay in bed; my blinds open to a cool breeze and my screen blown out so I could see the stars. Staring up at the stars, my mind wandered. Ever since I was little, the stars had always fascinated me; they could be so close or so far away or so small or so big, or full of life or completely dead, but no one would ever know unless they really studied them. And even then, who could really know if there was microbial life on a planet some billion light years away? I sighed, thinking of those days when things seemed so much simpler. I could just live my life, and wonder at everything without actually having to think about it, when I could understand something without having to accept another's thoughts on it. Sometimes I just wanted to be a little kid again; someone who only had to breathe and eat and sleep to live, not one who had to please others just to have a home. I smiled, thinking back to those days when I didn't understand why I would always move. As a kid, I always thought of my relocations as adventures, until I found out that each time I was relocated, I was transferred because none of my previous eight families had liked me. I shook my head a little thinking about that. I was used to rejection I guess, but that didn't make it any less difficult. Same with eating my mom's cooking. I hate it and I'm used to it but being used to it doesn't make it any less disgusting. I turned over, and grabbed the book from my nightstand, pulling the blankets over me. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, digging my palms into the binding of the book as I slowly closed my eyes. I finally drifted into sleep, but not without my dreams being plagued with those same three words: time, destiny chance, time, destiny, chance, over and over again.

The next morning, I awoke much the same way as I did most mornings; my annoyingly loud blaring alarm clock, breakfast, and lunch preparation and my early morning walk to school. Except today was my birthday. Today I was sixteen. Before I left, I dumped my piggy-bank's savings into my wallet and promised myself that if my parents were going to act like the abusive foster parents they were (wait…what?) then I would compensate for them. I had nearly two hundred dollars saved up from the past year. How I got the money, I had no idea; a lot of it was money that my foster parents had given me as allowance, (at least they paid up, sometimes, for the hell they made me live in) and some of it was money I had found on the ground at school. And somehow, the total amounted to more money than I had ever held at one time.

As I started walking off toward the school, I kept glancing at my pocket, grinning a little crazily at the money I held in my little green wallet. I had no idea how, but I had two hundred freaking dollars to spend! Just the thought of that made me smile; I figured today would be a good day. Unfortunately, I had no idea how wrong I really was.

My first classes passed fine; no problem. I turned all my homework in and when I got my past assignments back, they weren't too bad. My second class passed fine; no problem. I didn't completely zone out during English this time. Lunch passed today without the usual queasiness (it was some beef and mayo in a few slices of bread. I figured it might be ok-tasting, but it wasn't exactly delicious. At least it didn't make me barf) and finally, algebra and science passed alright, boring, but at least my ADHD hadn't really gotten in the way today. By the time school got out, I was feeling pretty good. No one had yelled at me or called me in after class, no teacher called on me or called me off for not paying attention. Overall it had been a pretty good day, well a good day if you happen to be me. After school, I decided to 'celebrate my birthday by heading to the 'mall' a few blocks down from the school. Technically it's not a mall, its just a few stores with really pricy chocolates and bikinis but for some reason, everyone calls it 'the mall'. But nonetheless, it was the only place you could find anything birthday-appropriate for miles around.

After walking for almost ten minutes, I finally reached the little shopping center. A few groups of students were huddled around with shopping bags and backpacks and there was a tiny stream of people heading inside the cinema, but other than that, it was mostly deserted. I paused for a moment and set my bag down, grabbing my wallet and my mythology book. In one hand, I held my shoulder bag over my back and in the other, I held my book. I had no real rationale to hold my book, but for some reason, it just felt right. I felt like holding my book would…help me somehow. I didn't know. So, with my hands full, and my money in my pocket, I set off for a Seven Eleven, only a block down the strand; they had cheap chocolates, just the kind that I needed. But when I got there, I realized that this was a _big_ mistake. Lounging in front of the store was a group of the biggest, ugliest, most-disgusting looking LA gangsters ever. As I turned the corner, they just stood there, blocking the front of the store, looking almost directly at me. I hate to be paranoid, but it almost looked like they were…waiting for me.

As soon as I saw them, I turned around and started to run the other way, but in less than a minute, a few of their comrades from the other side of the store came around and in a minute, I was surrounded. Why a bunch of LA gangbangers would randomly come for me, I did not know, but nonetheless, I knew what gang boys liked to do to girls…yeah; not a pretty picture. I was terrified. I reached into my bag and felt around for my pocket knife that I usually kept with me, but alas, of course, it was gone. I looked up at the boys, their faces almost hungry, a pack of wolves, hunting. As they closed in on me, I could have screamed, I could have shouted, I could have tried to fight my way out, but the only sound I could make was little more than a squeak of fear and the only motion I could make was to wring my hands. Then, something very strange happened. The mythology book which I was holding in my hands suddenly started burning and smoking in my hands. I looked down, shocked but I didn't have long to wonder at it; almost instantaneously, it exploded. Tiny pieces of burning paper rained down on the group of boys and larger, thicker pieces of binding, cardboard and leather flew directly into the store. The gang scattered and I was left standing amid a mess of smoking bits on the ground. Less than a minute after the explosion, people began milling around the little parking lot, and by now, the bits of burning textbook were beginning to spread their fire; sparks carried by the wind landed in trashcans, on newspapers, into an open window of a car, and within minutes, the entire building was ablaze.

Terrified, horrified, appalled and in wonder, I couldn't do much but stare at the wreckage. But unfortunately, police cars and paramedics and fire service began pulling up to the curbside. It took just one officer to send me running. The first one stepped out of a car, and immediately looked at me. His eyes caught mine, and he pointed, ushering the others and focusing their attention on me. I immediately started running and I didn't stop until I couldn't breathe.

Chapter 5

Runaway

"If you have nowhere to go, are you ever really lost?"

Proverb

_Stupid, stupid, stupid! You idiot! _I didn't realize how incredibly unintelligent it was to run away from a scene of a crime, even if I didn't commit the crime. (But my book had turned into a bomb, so did that make me the culprit?) There's a runaway at a crime scene. Then what? The police (and practically everyone else) would track down that runaway until they could find out who the heck they were and why the heck they had run away. Now, instead of just returning to my foster home on a 'regular' sixteenth birthday, I would be a runaway fugitive. I could already imagine the papers the next day: _local girl found running from burning neighborhood store. _I wiped a sweaty hand through my unwashed and slightly sooty hair. It had been almost twenty minutes since the book had burnt but I was still gasping for breath, partially from shock, partially from fear, partially because of the huge distance I had just sprinted. I still couldn't believe what had happened; the book had _exploded_. Ever since I had received that book, it had constantly been 'acting' strange, if a book can act in any way. Over the course of the week, it had seemed to, _relate_ to me, I guess. It was actually kind of scary; Yesterday, when I was exasperated, it had burned me (I still couldn't figure that out), then when I was feeling creative, I would sketch something and find a complete replica of it in the book, one I had never seen before until after I drew it. And something that _constantly_ seemed to happen: whenever I was crying, for some reason, to the touch, it would feel warmer and more comforting somehow; I never found those personas at any other time, other than when I needed it. Then I realized another thing, something that had completely evaded my memory; after the first few days, I couldn't find any other myths other than the Norse ones. Remember when my teacher first gave me the book, and there were dozens of myths from, like, _every_ culture? Well after, lets say, Wednesday, I never saw any of those myths; only the Norse. I shifted the shoulder bag to fit over my other shoulder and sat down on a park bench. Despite the mysteries I couldn't rid my head of, I knew they wouldn't help me. I didn't have the book for comfort and I _knew_ I couldn't return home; I was the runaway, remember? If I went back home, for sure, they would turn me over as the bomber. But what was my bomb? A suicidal mythology book? I scoffed humorlessly for a second, rubbing my hands together nervously. But then I realized another _extraordinary _thing about that book. It had saved my life. If the book hadn't burnt, the gang would have taken me. Although, I shook my head, chuckling, I might be alive, but the people inside the store must have died; by the time the paramedics had arrived, the entire store was aflame; it was my fault, I guess, yet there was nothing I could have done, and now there was nothing I could do; and even if I could, what could I do to help myself? I couldn't go back, I couldn't contact anyone…I was stranded. I reached into my bag for my sketches, pulling out that crisp green folder, chock full of my originals. As I flipped through them, emotion finally started hitting me; yes, my mythology book had exploded and killed a bunch of people and I was stranded with nowhere to go because by tomorrow morning, everyone would think that I was a terrorist, but now, I had _nowhere_ to go, I could ask _no one _for help and basically, _I_ was now a runaway teenager, destined for drug dealing or prostitution; not good. I started to cry again, hugging my shoulder bag against my chest. This time I had no book to help me, nor a social worker to ensure that I might have a future; I had a backpack, a psychology textbook, a folder of drawings, an apple from lunch and a wallet. Thank God I had brought all my money today. But even with a few hundred dollars, how long would that last me? A few days? A week? How could I possibly survive longer than a week with just what I had?

I buried my head in my hands, letting the tears drip silently through them. Thoughts, worries and fears buzzed around my brain but even by the time my eyes were dry, I still couldn't see clearly, not to the point of actually finding a solution at least. But I knew that moping on a park bench definitely wouldn't help me survive in this new world. With a last sigh, I stood up and repacked my bag with the drawings and set off, for nowhere.

But I honestly had absolutely nowhere to go. Within the next few hours, dusk was already falling on the city, and I had made it no farther than another identical suburban neighborhood. Upon reaching it, I was afraid I had gone in a circle and that I was back home (no, it wasn't my home anymore) but I knew it couldn't be. Step after step, one weary foot in front of the other set me on a course for nowhere, anywhere, any place, any 'safe' place I could find where I wouldn't be butchered (by police or parents or otherwise). I knew I was lost, weaving in and out of industrial roads and perfect suburbia, but I was looking for nothing, searching for no place. Could I really be lost in a land, however foreign, even if I had no purpose? Hmm…But then, from very far away, smack in the middle of some industrial area, I saw a light. And it wasn't a house light; it was brighter, it seemed to have more purpose, and it seemed to beckon me towards it. Curiously, I followed my temptation, and after a minute or two, I broke into a run and finally I could see the building. The words on the front of the building, the lighting on the sides, the little parking lot in the back, everything looked like something out of a book, a fairy tale for a runaway. I hadn't been looking for paradise, but I had found it. Somehow, I had found a shelter.

I know I just stood there in shock; happiness, excitement, relief, gratitude, disbelief, all of them coursing through my body all at once. I could have gotten down on one knee and thanked some distant deity I didn't believe in, but I just stood there, my hands clasped above my tailbone, and slowly, I walked in.

It was just as I expected it; rows upon rows of cots, a few windows, a kitchen with a line of hunched guys in flannel blankets with plastic bowls, and a few mothers with children over in a quieter corner. There were people _everywhere_, on cots, on the floor, leaned up against chairs or walls, and the sound was so intense, a combination of shouting from the kitchen, the screaming of infants and the snores of sleepers. I quietly walked over to deserted corner and I rolled myself up into a ball, hugging my knees to my chest and resting my cheeks on my dirty denim-clothed legs.

"Why did this have to happen to me?" I murmured softly, as I pulled out the sketch folder from my bag, "twenty four hours ago, I had a home, a bed, food, somewhat of a family." I paused for a moment as I yanked the zipper closed, "Now, I have nothing."

I pulled out the sketches, and stacked them all in a fan, staring at each one in turn, tracing the lines, the color, and the figures along with my finger. "Why can't life just be as easy as drawing?" I muttered softly, "If it's all we have, then why can't we use it?"

"Well unless you want to be a starving artist, you might not want to do that."

I almost jumped out of my skin. Startled, the papers flew out of my hand and I jumped up and pressed myself against the wall. "Oh My God!"

The speaker put his hands out in front of his chest in defense. "Jeez woman! I'm not going to kill you, you know."

I narrowed my eyes and turned away from the speaker. It was a boy, fifteen or sixteen with deep chocolate eyes and auburn hair. "Just… go away," I said softly

The boy appeared within line of my vision, a slightly confused look on his face. "Ok, just one thing and I'll go."

"Ok…" I was starting to get freaked out.

"Can I see your drawings?"

"That's an interesting first request."

"Ugh," the boy groaned. "Please, then I promise I'll leave."

"Whatever." I handed the stack of sketches to the boy grudgingly.

"The boy looked at each one, his expression changing upon each artwork he looked at, from nostalgia, to confusion, to fear, back to confusion. "What is it?" I asked

The boy shook his head a little and knelt on the ground, placing each painting on the hardwood with care. But before he placed each one on the ground, he ran his forefinger over a line on each of the drawings. After a few drawings, I realized he was running his finger over a repeating pattern in all of the drawings; they all had the same line running through them. Before long, he had placed all of the drawings in a collective order that made each of the lines connect. It took me a minute to realize that I was looking at a map; the drawings, as a whole made a map of the continental United States.

When he had finished, he looked back at me and I must have been a sight; I was in absolute shock. I had drawn each and every single one of those drawings freehand. "Oh my gosh…"

He looked just as impressed as I was. "I'm assuming you didn't know that these made a map," he guessed.

I shook my head. "No. they were just sketches. I had no idea."

"Hmm," the boy stood up turned around and saluted. "Well my work here is done. Catcha later."

"Wait," I stood up. "Don't go."

He turned around and chuckled. "I promised I'd leave once I checked out the drawings. I got what I wanted…"

I sighed, I'd never been good with this kind of stuff. "_Please_ don't go," I protested, "you can't just leave after making the map! Please…" This was getting more and more dramatic by the minute. I felt like I was in a bad soap opera.

"Ok look," the boy turned back around. If I stay, will you promise not to freak out

"Ok…" I paused, "well for starters, what's your name?"

The boy turned to me and stuck out his hand. "Jay."

I shook my head a little, "just Jay?"

"Just Jay."

"OOkay…"

"And you?"

I took a breath, and then sighed softly. "I'm Nicole."

"Cool." Jay paused for a moment, raising his hand to shake mine but at the last minute he lowered it shyly. He was silent for a moment but then spoke. "Your drawings are really cool, by the way. There actually pretty surprising."

I nodded, "Thanks, but what about them is surprising?"

He looked at me and nodded towards one of my drawings, the one of the ash tree (I stole it back from my art teacher) "Yggdrasill," he murmured softly, then he shook his head, his deep eyes a little teary, "Wow"

"How did you know about the tree," I asked softly. "I thought…" I trailed off. To be honest, I had assumed that I was the only one who really knew about the tree. I know it's a bit selfish but…I honestly hadn't known. Besides its not like Norse mythology is actually _popular_.

"I grew up with an adoptive family, they were from Norway, and when I was younger they taught me a lot of the Celtic myths." He chuckled a little, his eyes still a little wet, "_taught_ me is a bit of an understatement. They basically _drilled _it into my head." He shook his head a little, still staring at the pictures. He wiped his cheeks and smoothed his hand out over his pants, turning to me. "May I see one of your drawings? When I first saw them, I thought they were just pictures and sketches, but, now I'm not so sure."

I looked at him weirdly for a moment but then turned back around and handed him the folder. "Uh sure."

Jay took the folder gently and carefully opened the green paper, pulling out the drawings one at a time, placing them on his lap with care. I was puzzled at his tenderness, but I didn't say anything. Next, he placed a few of the drawings up and down his legs so he could look at each of them and one at a time, he picked one up, running his outgrown fingernails up and down the lines of the sketches. One at a time he did this, the same thing with each and every one of my drawings. At first he was just looking at random lines, but as he continued, I realized that he was tracing the same pattern on each and every single one of the sketches. In all of them there was the same pattern and even though I had drawn each of those, completely freehand, I had never noticed such a pattern. It was incredible. If my drawings were maps, then this one continuous similar line was a highway. Finally, after he had traced the lines on each of the drawings, he took them, each of the near-dozen I had drawn and spread them out on the dusty floor. Carefully, he placed each one so that the lines connected to each other, and by the time he had used up all the drawings, there was a map. A huge map made up of completely unconnected, unrelated drawings; yet, they were there and that same highway curved and curled all over the map, leading off somewhere out off, unknown.

When the boy had finished, he stood up and looked back down at me as he stood over the map. "You drew this?" He was incredulous

But I was so excited, I could barely catch my breath. "I cant believe it," I said softly, breathing heavily. "I never knew it would be this…" I trailed off, waving my hands over the sketch. "I really can't believe it."

Jay looked from the map, back to me, from the map, back to me and for a split-second I was afraid he might be angry, but when he actually turned back to me he was wearing the most obnoxious grin I had ever seen. "This is incredible!" He knelt down a little and shifted the pages so they were aligned. "How the heck did you do it?" he turned back to me, still grinning, speechless.

I slid down against the wall stared, shocked at the beauty of the drawing. "I don't know how I did it, it just _came_ to me." As my breathing slowed a bit, I realized that I wasn't just fascinated and shocked, but I was a little scared. The drawings had just _come_ to me, and now they formed a near fully-completed map, the original drawings barely visible, now as part of a bigger foundation.

The boy was still knelt by the map, but he turned towards me, a puzzled smile on his face, almost like a student on the brink of understanding, "have you ever heard of automatic drawing?"

Equally puzzled, I shook my head.

Jay was clearly excited; he crawled back to the wall and as he glanced at me, his eyes flashed. "It's a term my parents used to use all the time. Basically," he paused, his hands in midair as he tried to explain it, "it's this concept that people can have an idea to write about something, or draw something without really thinking about it, and they just…do it." He glanced at me but I was still as confused as ever so he went on. "Think of it this way," he held up his hands and mimed a blank slate, "You're in an art class, and you have no idea what to write about, but you just start drawing and before you know it you have some kind of sketch that you weren't really thinking about before, but now, it's real and you drew it."

I shook my head a little, my hair falling into my eyes. "So basically your saying that those drawings," I pointed to the map, "were completely subconscious, and they came to me, just from God or something?"

He shifted uncomfortably. "Well not exactly, but you get the idea. It just kind of sounded that way. I don't know; just when you said it _came_ to you," he made quotes in the air with his fingers, "it kind of sounded like that."

I turned back to the map, thinking about it. When I had first started drawing, it just seemed like I was sketching what I saw in the book. But the Yggdrasill sketch was different, and so were most of them after that; I _had_ been thinking about them, I had an idea in my head at the time, but my sketches hadn't really been thought through, they just _happened_.

I hugged my knees to my chest, still staring at the sketches. "I think so," I said slowly, softly. "That might be it."

Jay looked at the map for a while in a daze, but after a few moments, he spoke. "Where do you think it comes from, the automatic stuff," he asked softly, "I mean if you weren't thinking about it, then how did you do it?"

"As I said, God, maybe?" I laughed a little at the irony. "But why would God, a monotheistic God give me the ability to draw a series of myths and polytheistic gods?" I was silent for a moment, "do you believe in God, Jay?"

He looked around the room, at the dozens of sleeping bodies under dimmed lights. "I guess," the boy said softly as he turned back to me, "I want to believe in God, in _a _God, I have to believe that someone made all this, made me." He looked around the drab room once again before he turned back to me, "I only wish that he, or she, could just speak to me, let me know that someone's really out there. You know?"

"Definitely," I smiled a little. "I've been a foster kid for as long as I can remember, but each time I moved, I just wanted to know that there was someone somewhere who, no matter where I'd been transferred to, would still see me the same. I just wanted something to seem consistent, real."

Jay nodded a little. "I know how you feel. Sometimes I only wish that there could be someone, something to just be there for me."

"Yeah, exactly."

We were silent for a while, with only the sound of our breath. But before long, I realized he was asleep, his head bent over his knees, his body, rolled up. I sighed and took the sketches from the floor, and stuffed them back in my folder carelessly. And like him, I finally drifted into slumber.

Chapter 6

Journey

"The last piece of a puzzle will complete an image; a friend will complete your life."

-Anonymous

I've never been much of a dreamer. When I wake, I usually only remember bits and pieces from my dreams, like small phrases, some of the people around me or the setting; never the whole picture. So that night, even as I slept, very unsoundly mind you, in the corner of a sweaty, stuffy, school-gym-smelling place, somehow my dreams seemed more vivid; I could actually understand what was happening, and when I woke up the following morning, somehow I actually remembered it. Well, kind of. I remembered seeing the map again, the map that Jay had somehow made out of my drawings, but this time, the blank edges were filled in, and if you looked in detail, you could see borders and rivers and even mountains. Then with a jolt, I realized I was looking at the continental Untied States. But it wasn't the map that surprised me that much; As I stared at it, drinking in the details of the drawing, it almost appeared as if I was gazing down at it from space, as if I was above the earth, staring down at the country. But the curious thing was I could still see all my drawings connected in the image. Curious. As I stared at it, a huge plume of smoke and flame shot out of some northern area, a round plume that seemed a few hundred miles north of Salt Lake City, Utah. I could tell because even from my perspective I could see the water of the Great Salt Lake. The last thing I remember before waking up, was the face of a man, an elfish, and mischievous-looking little guy, his face embedded in the smoke as if the fiery stuff made up his facial features. And when I woke, I could have sworn I could still see the face of the fiery man behind my eyes.

But I _did_ wake. The warmth, the sunlight streaming down from the skylight, the clash of pots and pans in the kitchen, and the shouting of people in various languages, the rustling of blankets, the groans of women and the cries of children woke me from my slumber. Now its not every night that I have the extreme privilege of sleeping on the floor of a homeless shelter, but, hey, you never know what life might throw you. When I finally opened my eyes, the light streaming down from the upper windows blinded me and I blinked groggily, unable to see. But when I finally was able to fully force my eyelids open, I almost cracked up laughing. Jay, still fast asleep beside me had the full impression of a drunken pirate at sea; his eyes were fluttering as he snored loudly, his hair blew out from his face each time he exhaled, his head was tilted a little to the left and his legs were splayed out in front of him with a metal water tin between his spread calves. His hands, palm up were on either side of him and his mouth was open in a slight smile. I giggled, prodding his hair out of his eyes a little. A few moments later he shifted his head, making his hair fall back into his eyes, and muttered something about turnip soup with mushrooms before he shifted his weight and slid down the wall, falling on his side. A minute or so later, he opened his eyes, yawned, stretched and sat up as if he was just a normal kid waking up on a Saturday morning. I almost died laughing.

"What choo laughing about?" Jay demanded groggily as he positioned himself against the wall, rubbing his shoulder a little. "Whatso funny?"

"Ah nothing," I said through gasps of air, "just, your sleep is more interesting than _Saturday Night Live_." I giggled a little.

The boy rolled his eyes and turned his head toward the growing line of women at the other side of the hall, bowls in hand. "Breakfast?"

My stomach growled loudly. I hadn't realized how hungry I was; I hadn't eaten since lunch the day before. "Yes!"

"'Kay." Jay rummaged through his bag beside him then got up and offered me his hand as he slung it over his shoulder. "Take your bag," he said as I copied him and went through my belongings, "you never know what you might need, or who might take it." I gingerly snapped the bag closed and swung it over my shoulders, mimicking him as he pulled me up.

As we reached the line, Jay brought his face close to mine, "get as much as possible and eat as little as you can. You'll save the rest and you never know when you might need it."

I stepped away from him a little freaked out, "Uhh why?"

The boy grimaced and held his bag to his hip. "I've been on the road about a week," he said softly, "trust me, you never know when you might need the extras."

I bit my lip. "Yeah, you still owe me an explanation of where you come from and whatnot."


End file.
